iApocalypse
by Morning Renegade
Summary: A true friend, an almost lover; amongst the terror he searches for those piercing blues to stare back, the one he called Sam. SEDDIE; "I once knew this girl I love; and now all I have is her teardrop."
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

'Apocalypse,'

In still air, in grave silence, in genuine fear—she whispered, ever so softly.

Was that the very first time she had seemed almost scared? With the white alabaster skin, vacant eyes, trembling lips, faltering voice? Since never had he once seen her so quiet, filled with what ludicrous fear and doubt; and those eyes, oh, how those eyes had stared into his, drowning him in this strange, strange power...

It smothered him; then he watched her, questioningly. Her fingers scratched the mahogany diner table, producing some eerie, maddening sound—and at that second, he might have just took those two large strides, gingerly wrapping his protective arms around her curvaceous but fragile body, embracing her from the frightening whatnots of the world. He could have, would have, should have; because this was not some insignificant event, where she would simply laugh it off and shove him aside before scouring for another leg of ham. No, this was not her usual satire self.

This was the dawn of her breakdown. And his.

Instead, he looked at her distraught face with what foolish incredulousness he managed to muster, and wiggled his brows in the silly fashion she hated with a passion (or did she love—he couldn't remember). And with that he burst out into joyous laughter, as if catching her in a crime she had yet done again; with pride he capered round her, utterly oblivious to this broken thing standing there in terror.

Oh, he was so sure of it this time.

But then again, Freddie never was right when it came to Sam.

Still he continued with his taunts, guffawing louder as he heard the slow footsteps of Carly's approaching—he had, for longer than he could remember, wanted to put her under the headlights, much like she had been for the best decade. Since seven she had generally been this disgusting creature that catapulted epic insults at him; she had this burning hatred inside of her, and he hadn't known what he'd done to anger her so. He'd walk into the room with the peace he had (and slick, gelled hair he spent hours and hours perfecting while watching the how-to video on SplashFace) and she would slap a slice of ham on his head, with that winning smirk she always seemed to have.

So yes, Freddie needed a win. Sam had one too many, and besides—he was so sure.

Life was a bitch, he never did learn.

She glanced at him in despair, a peculiar look that grounded him for just a moment. Then he started to ask himself: who was this girl? This seemingly intimidated, sober girl child that although resembled what he knew, was the exact opposite. Where was the spunky girl, filled with life and also gyrating around like the savage caveman—or woman, who knew, for she could probably have had the strength and craziness of a man—she was. But today she stood there, towering over him even though he was obviously the one at upper hand in the heigh section.

It almost alarmed him; for a second then and there, he yearned to pick her up and lay her on the purple sofa, brushing the streaks of blond hair away from her glassy eyes.

Could have, would have, should have.

The door opened and the familiar smell of garden apples engulfed the entire room (and how many times had he told her not to use that apple shampoo? He hadn't hated it, he just wanted to smell Sam's perfect strawberry golden hair). She gazed first at the girl, skeptical, then proceeded to throw herself onto the couch, where Sam should have been lying on, resting those tired eyes to sleep.

Carly snorted when Freddie had recounted a tale where he humiliated her and had left her in a complete daze. She was dubious, with her rationality and reasoning; but still, for all her logic and knowledge and beauty and intelligence, she looked over this surprisingly cool air, blaming it on the weather.

But come on, it was April and the flowers were just starting to bloom.

How could a summer day turn winter-cold?

And then that hysterical girl slid across the room, blocking that silly wooden box that played what mindless show Carly seemed to enjoy (she had once loved it, he recalled). Her invincible fist struck down onto the coffee table; pure, dark silence followed thereafter, where only the creaks of the table were heard, and her conspicuous, laboured breathing.

At this he could feel the sick feeling in his guts, warning him about playing with fire. Settling on the sofa, he cautiously muted the box and placed his hands firmly on the table. Her baby blues searched the eyes of her two confidants, as if seeking for attention and permission. She could not have looked more petrified than ever.

Again, he was downright wrong.

She launched into some conspiracy about the American government, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the scientists (did she call them the 31 Hoover?), the destruction, the future, the tests, the fear, the fear, the fear...

She ended her speech abruptly, body shaking from the warring emotions inside her. He watched her with curiosity, worry, and a tad bit of disbelief—in what universe could there be beasts; and superpowers? He laughs! This was not some fucked up sci-fi movie where vampires and werewolves and pixies and unicorns existed. This was real life. Nothing as special happens, and nothing will. He wanted to slap her.

Instead, she slapped him.

'You're right,' she whispered in the same, deathly tone. 'This is life; it's worst. Uglier. Stronger. Faster. They are the predator, and we the prey.'

They are the predator, and we the prey.

That was much too capricious—even for Sam. She never had that wisdom, nor the English skills of a poet. While her silver tongue could possibly have gotten her anything and everything, she certainly did not know how to piece together a coherent sentence that held such power, he almost collapsed in defeat. It seemed too fake, like an act.

She must be waiting for his reaction, that face which she would laugh of for years. And years to come.

'And since when did you turn into J. K. Rowling?'

The quiet brunette suddenly laughed, awkward with this bizarre tension that hung between the two. Carly was quite sure of the fact that they fought and fought, but there was an intensity in their gaze that frightened her. As she watched, she got tangled within this intricate maze Freddie and Sam seemed to call their friendship.

Unexpectedly, the blonde recoiled. She stared at the boy, then the uncomfortable girl, then the boy again, and stayed like this for one solemn minute. He choked on the air that he breathed, and she? Her blue eyes pierced his skin, as if looking for the heart safely locked by his ribcage. And Carly simply laughed again, feigning what silly whimsicality they used to survive on.

'Do you believe me?'

But he was so sure, oh, how sure he was...

'Dear God, no, Sam. I swear, you're getting crazier by the second-'

And her next motion surprised him so much his head spun. He gripped the sofa, palms sweaty; a silent chaos unfurled in front of Freddie, and there was her eyes, her eyes! That radiating dark light that blinded him died down—they say that eyes were the windows to the soul, and he could swore on his life he caught a glimpse of her soul. That terrified, trembling shining thing, staring back at him. Time stopped for him (he wondered then, what happened to Carly?). He saw her, the true Sam, somewhere deep and behind the thick layers of deception—and he panicked.

He truly did.

And he saw that tear fell.

He almost reached forth to catch it.

Almost.

'Then promise me never to give up.'

She didn't wait for a reply—she simply left, and Carly and Freddie, so appalled by this being, froze. The winter-summer day just grew colder.

Those seven words were her last, for that was the last time anyone saw Samantha "Sam" Puckett.

Then it began, just as she said.

The Apocalypse.


	2. Memories

**Chapter 1: Memories**

He groaned, head pounding and world spinning all around him. There were the scattered glass pieces of glassware, then there was the strong, overpowering smell that filled his nostrils; he felt a wetness on his hand, only then had he noticed that he had been lying on the cool liquid all night long. He must have fell asleep while trying to finish up his paperwork.

Then again, maybe he just had one too many drinks and ended up too drunk to get back to his bed.

The previous night was a blur. He remembered the bartender (Ramon, was it?), with his bushy V-shaped goatee and retro Harry Potter glasses and husky voice, reluctantly pushing him drink after drink of vodka and bourbon and whatever that he managed to think of in his drunk state of mind. Perhaps he had been celebrating something, maybe, but currently he couldn't think of anything (because there wasn't one). His hangover wasn't helping him much with his memories, blurring them into a mess of recollection he had no intention of remembering. All he wanted to do was leave the mess as it was, safely tuck somewhere within his head.

He wanted to punish himself, to drown himself and wallow in this sorrow he seemed to always have. To keep drinking and forget the world and all his cares, and seep into the dream where he fed ponies over the garden wall...

And then amongst the singing of the birds and blooming daffodils he would meet his almost lover, standing there with that bright smile hanging on her face. In every dream she was always there waiting for him in patience (what irony), and when he saw her he could most probably light up the night sky.

It was painfully terrifying, in truth, to see her. Because he knew that she was gone in reality, he never ever wanted to wake up from this beautiful dream, where she was there healthy and happy, and he was with her, holding her hand and touching her skin and his lips grazing her lips. It might all have been just a dream, but to him it seemed real enough for him to crave this fiction over the world. He laughed darkly at this.

What world had they left?

Everything that he once knew were in shambles. Nowadays, walking down the streets of Seattle could most likely get you killed—or worst comes to worst, the lions hauled you back into their dens. It was ironic, really, because going into the unknown was more horrendous than death; everyone that had been found were never again seen.

The migraine hit him again. Oh, Sam.

He shivered as the cold hard floor touched his skin; glancing at the silently ticking clock, he almost recoiled at the sudden revelation of the time. It was almost evening and Carly was probably going to give his hungover ass a little kicking (as if she could beat him like Sam could probably have). Pushing his sad self up against gravity, he subconsciously dusted his black cargo pants, only realising then that his midnight long-sleeved tee was soaking wet in day-old vodka. He tore it down and discarded it carelessly into the bin, still detecting the bittersweet aroma he loved and hated.

Being twenty-two, Freddie was surprisingly tall and appeared older than his real age. He hadn't changed much over the years physically wise (except for the fact that he had gotten even more bulkier than when Sam was still around), with his dark charcoal-brown hair and deep brown eyes, there was still remains of a broken child growing up in this cruel world.

But then amongst the changes that took place within the boy-man was the way he carried himself these days. No longer was he the insecure, nerdy tech-savvy teenager who was always prattling on about this new processor or that new motherboard. Neither was he the one to always be physically and emotionally abused by his one and only; today he stood loftily like a skyscraper, strong and dedicated and stubborn (he was almost like Sam, he figured and liked this). However, just like a true skyscraper, he became emotionless.

No smile, no tears, no laughter, no fear. He lost his innocence way too early and now became this dark creature thing that crept secretly behind the drapes of secrecy, watching the deteriorating society and civilisation. But he wasn't evil—no, he definitely wasn't.

Actually, he did laugh! More like a quiet, morose chuckle one in a while. There wasn't much to laugh about in this place and at this current state, anyway.

He dried the layer of glistening alcohol on his hard abdomen, watching his slow hand motions through the metal handles of the barstool. He reckoned that from the bar to his hole of a room, he could probably slip into a fresh black t-shirt and head towards the meeting area, where the rest of the 'renegades' (as the government termed it) should be. He could vision a number of them impatiently waiting on him, some shuffling here and there and others staring into space in the familiar nostalgia that held the place.

Huh, he's going to take his time then.

As he ambled apathetically down the unlit hallway, he fished his back pocket for her cellphone. Flashlight were one thing, but modern technology made it much easier and efficient, considering that he was too tired (or lazy) to walk back into the bar in search of his torch. Thinking he was alone, he yawned, a thunderous noise that echoed down the road. Surprisingly, his muscles felt sore from yesterday's battle. He supposed he had to buck up today and swallow some beef if he wanted to do well out on the field later on (or also so that Arrow would put him on).

"Finally awake from your beauty sleep there, Sleeping Beauty?" The accustomed snarky voice reverberated along the soundless hallway, high heels clacking towards him. "Oh God, seems you've got one too many drinks. You reek.

"Ollie's not gonna like it,"

While he loved her in a sisterly fashion, sometimes she got on his nerve and maddened him, only because this petite blonde reminded him too much of Sam. He glanced at the woman (who was although four years his senior, acted like one who was younger than he), towering over her head despite wearing five inch heels. He watched her with a hint of precariousness, something his life had taught him to do so in this century.

"Have you forgotten me already? Hello there, Chloe Sullivan, that girl who saved your burning ass from the war a few years back? Remember, you were that scrimpy little boy that cried and cried for hours?"

He glared in disdain. "Don't you ever bring him up."

Following him (his large strides caused her to scuffle after him, with her short legs, high heels and all) swiftly, she managed to catch up to his beside. "You were just a child, every child cries."

"Go back to Oliver and tell him I'll be there in five,"

"No, you tell him yourself," Again, his mind started to wander among the recollection of his could-be girlfriend's face, hearing the gaiety of her sweet laughter. "We're all waiting for you in the conference room—you know where it is, right?—and you'd better get there quick, 'cause Ollie's pretty fed up."

"Whatever, then tell him to go fight without,"

Rolling her green eyes, she muttered. "And put on a shirt, would you? I think everyone's already gotten a good look at your Abercrombie Fitch model body."

Indifferently, he stepped away from the small figure and dropped back into the shadows, moving with the darkness and arriving to his room. Thinking back, he was definite that it was a lie—he in fact did want to go to the battlefield with everyone else. Because every battle he held to what hope he had, always scanning the opponents for the familiar face he was looking for. Those long golden locks that cascaded down her back, and those icy blue eyes that held so much warmth... He missed her desperately, and wanted her back with him. Just like how Gibby had Carly, and Oliver had Chloe.

He was a hopeless case, Oliver used to tell him. Then Carly would counter that things could change, with that bright fire that burned within her beating heart. And through this banter he would stand watching them firing back and forth, as if uncaring of everything in the world. He would hum the _Girly Cow _tune under his breath and tap his foot to the rhythm, distracting himself momentarily from the consistent bringing up of Sam's name.

Oh, Sam. How he missed her.

He slipped into the ironed black shirt (he had to thank his mom for teaching him how to do house chores; somewhere in the world, he will find her after finding Sam) after brushing his hair with his wet fingers. Some people looked great right after waking up, and he was one of them. While he did look perfectly fine in most ways, it didn't stop him from appearing tired all the time.

Only then had his phone ring, vibrating violently on his clean bed (how he yearned to just throw his body on there and sleep until the war ended); briefly looking at the screen, he figured the codename and almost chuckled out of amusement when hearing her perky voice from the other line.

"Fredward Benson! You're an hour late, and everybody's angry, especially Oliver! Get your butt here this instant young man—"

"Carlotta, chill, I'll be there in a jiff. Got to clean myself up after last night."

"You went drinking again," There was the criticism in her statement that completely wiped away her good girl image. Then again, the moment she could easily strip down and reassemble a Walther P99 probably did the trick.

He answered softly, just like he used to before everything changed. "I craved for some,"

"But you can't go drinking every time after returning from the field," A whooshing sound signalled him that she had moved into a quiet region, where no one was there to listen in on their conversation. "You can't just get drunk whenever you don't find her."

"I will find her,"

"I'm not saying you won't," Carly sighed, defeated. "I'm just saying that you can't turn to alcohol, because there's only so much you can do without even having the slightest clue as to where she is. It could be days, weeks, months, years, centuries before you find her. Your liver's might give out before you manage to find her."

Her little jest in the end had been to dampen the heavy atmosphere all around him and her. He knew Carly only wanted the best for him, and he respected her like a sister. After loosing Spencer, all she had was Freddie himself and her Gibby. Her life had been hard, he suddenly noticed—constantly she had to take care of Spencer as a teenager, and now although twenty-one (going on to twenty-two) she still had to take care of the smaller kids in the group. Carly's tired, very tired.

"Okay, I understand." Freddie mumbled, deciding that it was better to let her have this one instead. "I'll be there in a sec—and don't worry, I won't drop in for another drink."

There was the sigh of relief from the other end, and he swore he heard her smile over the phone, if it was even possible. "Good boy,"

Putting on his (and Sam's, he smiled) favourite leather jacket, he walked out of his room and mentally prepared himself for the admonishment he would receive from Oliver, and also for the stakeout tonight. In the back of his mind there was the picture of bells chiming in the spring wind, with him feeding carrots to a majestic horse with a gleaming black coat.

And he smiled out of genuine happiness, because there Sam was.

* * *

><p>Carly was frantic.<p>

She walked this way and that, absentmindedly tracing the names of old cartoon characters onto the steel wall she leaned on. While the coldness of the metal sent chills through her body, it seemed like it was the only way in calming her from the current situation. Because Freddie was late for today's meeting—which was already the fifth time since last week—Oliver was mad. She understood why Freddie had gone drinking every night (truthfully, she had always wanted to go with him if it weren't for Gibby's warning wagging finger) but the latter hadn't. Unless Oliver had seen the way Freddie stared at Sam when she was around, perhaps he wouldn't be so hard on Freddie like he was now.

When Sam was around...

She choked back on the tears that threatened to come; she wanted to let the sobs wreck out of her tiny body, to just simply let the waves of emotions drown her from her life. Since when had she turned into this emotional wreck? There was the time when all she cared about was writing History assignments and learning Spanish with Sam and doing iCarly with her best friends... huh, iCarly.

The memories were kept at bay in her mind, because she knew that whenever she replayed them she wouldn't be able to hold back the salty tears. At the very last episode of iCarly, she recalled being completely numb to both emotions and physical interactions. She remembered reading the numerous comments posted by people all around the world, whining and bidding their farewells to their childhood. And Carly? She was saying goodbye to her whole life.

Sam had gone missing. Freddie was in a downward spiral. Mrs. Benson threatened to cut her legs off because she blamed Carly for causing Freddie this much pain. Her dad was halfway across the world, underwater in an enclosed metal blob. Gibby was with Tasha, which surprisingly aggrieved her then. And Spencer...

Spencer. Sweet, comical, optimistic Spencer.

That was when the tears just spilled over. When was the last time she had seen him—two years ago? He was so brave, so very brave... If not for his courageous act, Freddie and herself would probably have not survived. He sacrificed himself just so they could scramble away from the scene and back to the protection of the team. She wondered distressingly as to where he was right now; was he even alive? Could the 31-Hoover have used him in their inhumane experiments?

She shuddered at this thought; like most people say, it was better to die a horrible death than to get caught up in the grips of the government. There were rumours that passed around rapidly, a story of how a girl had been dragged lifelessly along East Maple Road. The trail of the burgundy dried blood was still there, as if a remembrance of the girl that once was. Carly absolutely abhorred the idea of being poked and prodded with, especially with needles.

But at the thought of Spencer, she hadn't realised she was already crying. Only then had she noticed the seemingly strong embrace of protective arms pulling her close to his chest, fingers stroking her brunette hair as she wept for her past. Glimpsing at his face, she proceeded to snuggle deep into Gibby's neck, thankful for the warmth of her boyfriend.

"Carls," Freddie's voice came from the far corner, followed by the mumbling and loud shambling of restless feet. "You okay?"

She tried to flash a grin but only managed a small smile. It seemed harder to appear joyful these days. "I'm fine, and hopefully you would be too."

"And cue Oliver," Gibby faltered as the whole room went silent.

The sounds of scuffling boots on the sandy ground filled the awkward, quiet atmosphere—the hard face of the blond man materialised into the room, appearing rather amused than angered. While Carly was certain that he was exasperated with Freddie's tardiness, she couldn't quite lay her finger as to what he felt right now. Then again, it was a difficult task to read this man's concealed emotions.

"Nice of you to join us, Benson." He quipped, sarcastic as he placed his firm arm on the younger's shoulder. "How about you lay off the poison waters for awhile, huh? There's kind of a limited supply, and we all want a fair share."

"You don't understand," Freddie muttered indistinctly, letting go of Carly's hand as he helped her up from the floor. "You just don't."

Then suddenly something happened that astonished Carly, and Freddie ever more. Oliver socked the boy in the face, hovering over him with what authority and power he held (and obviously, Freddie was bound to have a bruise by the following morning).

"Don't understand? All of us here standing in this room have lost at least one of the people we loved the most. Carly's lost Spencer, Gibby's lost his mom, Chloe's lost her sister—and Dean there? He's lost his whole family. You're not in this alone, Freddie. We all are fighting for the same purpose: to destroy the organisation that destroyed civilisation. We're all trying to survive, and it won't help us if we have you going about drinking and crying about your life. We all want the lives we had before the war took place.

"We're all looking for a better future."

At this he stopped, gazing at Freddie intently while the latter rubbed his cheek. There was the air of the leader that hung around him—the image of an alpha male of a wolf pack. Freddie had wanted so badly to talk back, to tell him that he didn't understand, but what Oliver said was the cold truth. Everyone had lost someone close to their hearts. They were taken away and never again seen. Like Spencer. Like Mrs. Gibson. Like his own mom.

Like Sam.

Without anything to say he simply nodded, head bobbing only slightly as the figure loomed over him with a helping hand. Carly noticed Freddie's expression harden, standing up while pushing the extended arm away from himself. She almost made an infuriated noise upon watching his bipolar behaviour; she loved him, and she always will, but when will he ever learn that this act would not help him in finding Sam?

Carly sighed heavily. This meeting was going to take a long time before it adjourned.

* * *

><p>After the agonising hours of droning passed, Freddie practically sprinted out of the conference hall and rushed to sequester himself from everyone else; although Carly looked at him pleadingly, he ignored her (he took a mental note to apologise to her later in the night, during the stakeout). Slamming the door shut behind him, he then shoved the wooden table against the door, prohibiting anyone from coming in lest they wanted to. Since there was no bolt in the door to lock, he might as well relied on good old fashioned ways.<p>

Flipping on the radio that sat on the table itself, he proceeded to set up his usual gear. While Oliver had his arrow and bows (seriously, had he thought himself as Robin Hood?) and Carly had her handguns, Freddie had his swords. But as he stood there and thought, he didn't really have a weapon. His hands were good enough.

Though his way of fighting was a little primitive, he as thankful for having at least some knowledge prior to the apocalypse. Considering that he had in fact taken fencing lessons as a child, he was quite skilled at swordsmanship—even Oliver had found him with remarkable talent. Nonetheless, while in fencing classes his opponents usually wore defensive paddings, this was the real world, and whomever or whatever he pierced it would most definitely hurt. But this was what it was—the saying goes by 'To kill the predator, and never become the prey, because though they were once humans, they now are monsters'.

"They are the predator, and we the prey." He whispered sotto voce, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants.

Shaking the dreadful feeling away, he glanced at the buffering radio, trying to receive what signal that was left. This was a pet peeve of his—to search for abandoned radio stations. He'd thought that maybe one day he would be able to pick on something, much like how they had found another batch of survivors while listening in to government speeches (which bewildered him—if there was no one at the other end to listen to the radio, then what good was it to broadcast them?). Maybe he would even hear her voice through the battered speakers.

Somehow, he would hear her laugh again.

But it would be difficult, because in the event where she was caught by the 31-Hoover, she could probably be gone already. Violently, he struck his fist into the wall, only denting it slightly (then again, it was made of aluminium). He hated the idea, and he never wanted to think of it again; but the mind does what it wants to, and onwards it prodded insensitively.

There were thirty-one scientists in the organisation, and they were the ones who had brought about such catastrophes to the world. He had only seen one, for they were kept in secrecy deep within the government labs. Apparently, there were only three scientists that powered the whole project under the government—that would leave the world with twenty-seven other scientists, considering the one that Freddie's team had met was killed by his bare hands.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he meditated in an attempt of washing the bloody images away from his mind. Again, it did quite the opposite—on a loop the memories played, showing him the monster that he truly was. It shocked Carly, and even him, really. But he couldn't help it, he couldn't control himself; these people were the ones who took Spencer away, who killed his mother, who left Carly traumatised for life, who took Sam from his arms.

Well, hypothetically speaking anyway, since she would probably have gave him a great slug in the face, then the downstairs. He laughed at this seemingly cheery scenario.

He was so sure that these scientists were the ones behind the conspiracy of 'upgrading' the human race into something quite sublime. They claimed that going through the treatment could do wonders to the human body—stronger, faster, better. It displeased him that these people despised the way humans were built to be; but once people (more like the richer, gullible aristocrats) started to attend and receive this so called treatment, things started to change. Literally, humans began their own types of metamorphosis.

Into what? Pure, deadly creatures, with only one thing onset in their minds—to kill (and also to eat, but what they eat they kill).

But as he flexed his muscles and cracked his knuckles, he contemplated about the ethicality of taking the lives of innocent creatures. Some naïve minds had played into the hands of 31-Hoover, and while they had brought it upon themselves, was it morally right to kill them? They weren't exactly keen on becoming monsters—who would, anyway? Since the Apocalypse started he had believed that the sole purpose of 31-Hoover was to destroy Earth. They had the potential of starting worldwide destruction, and also the power of stopping all mayhem (but who was he kidding—they loved watching people run around in fear).

At the point of discovering the number of scientists left, he made a determined decision to find all of them, and kill them.

The world would be much safer without them, anyway.

Buckling his black army boots, he tucked a small dagger inconspicuously within the straps, planning an escape already lest he got caught. His plan was simple—run out while killing anything that got in his way; because anyone and everyone that set foot and gave into the government were either brainwashed or genuinely evil, they probably would be much better left dead. Besides, it was probably the only liable solution available.

Then, a soft banging (paradoxical phrase; an English term Freddie still remembered from Ms. Briggs' English classes—he wondered where she was now) came from the door. Followed by a feeble attempt to thrust the door open, a defeated sigh drifted from the other side. He dragged the table away from the door, swinging it open to meet a kneeling Carly.

"What are you doing?" Cocking an eyebrow, he pulled the meagre female up onto her feet.

Carly had changed a lot physically, he noticed. Though she had used to be thin as a stick, she was even scrawnier now, appearing frail like a sick angel. Her brown eyes no longer illuminated its merry light, and on her neck were scars of the doings of sharp claws. But the only thing that remained the same was her beautiful chocolate mane. Always silky, always shiny, always beautiful. Freddie always caught her absentmindedly brushing her fingers through her hair femininely like she used to as a teenager, and this somehow comforted him—at least she still had a part of herself left even after falling apart. He knew what it was like to know nothing of yourself anymore—because he was the perfect evidence.

And he was in search of the one piece that he wanted back the most—Sam.

The waif-like girl brushed her skirt, fingers playing on the butt of her prized gun while shyly looking away from his intense gaze. "Trying to peek through the peep-hole..."

Hearing her childlike innocence in the statement he couldn't help but let out a quiet chuckle, sounding as if at peace and jubilant. But they both knew true contentment would be achieved when they got Sam back.

"You're such a kid, Carls."

"Whatever, Freddie. Anyway, have you gotten everything ready? Connor and Charlotte are waiting at the lobby, and you know how those two are when we're not there."

"They might be brother and sister but they act like mortal enemies. Just like..."

Sam and Freddie?

The laughter died down into a long moment of awkwardness. While watching the two had made him recall so many fond memories of Sam—and it pained him so—he didn't bore and hatred for them. Just bona fide amusement and interest. He never did realise how much he and Sam had argued, so watching the two teenagers reparteeing was a refreshing change. He suddenly knew how Carly felt for all the years of banter and fights.

"So, you ready?"

"I think so," Lopsidedly, he grinned at his best friend, whom returned him with an eye-roll.

Tonight, Freddie's team shall stakeout at the forested region, where mangled bodies had been found just days ago. He was sure that they would most likely encounter the creep of the week (a framed photo of mutated beings changed weekly to keep the group motivated—Freddie still didn't understand the motive of this, but surprisingly it helped), so he prepared himself both mentally and physically by downing three Redbulls at one go.

"You think that's a good idea, Freddie?"

"I've already done it, so no point in saying it's not a good idea."

In a jocular way, she retorted. "Since when were you so apathetic?"

Since Sam went missing, he almost said.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter's pretty boring, this one. Been throwing around a few names; some characters are based off of other shows, while others are just OCs. Not to worry, I'm not going to trail off towards these characters, because the whole idea of writing this story was to write it on iCarly. So fret not, I just needed names here and there to fill up empty holes; nonetheless, once in a while they come into play, but majority of the time the story centralises around Carly and Freddie, and maybe occasionally some other characters.<strong>

**Subsequent chapters are bound to include more action and adventure—just give the story time to unfurl and develop itself. Can't rush it now, can we?**

**Enjoy the chapter, please review: praises and criticism are welcomed with warmhearted and open arms.**


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